


And They Were Roommates

by CautionaryTales



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Misunderstandings, Other, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29485734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CautionaryTales/pseuds/CautionaryTales
Summary: After Enjolras is unexpectedly evicted from his apartment, he ends up temporarily moving into Grantaire’s spare room while he searches for a new place to live.  Grantaire doesn’t seem too thrilled about it either, but Enjolras’ options are limited right now, so he’ll take what he can get.  Living with each other sparks a tentative friendship, new arguments, fresh perspectives, and a lot of very complicated feelings that Enjolras is trying his best to ignore.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 23





	And They Were Roommates

“What took you so long?” Combeferre asks as Enjolras slides into the seat next to him, still panting from his journey down the handful of blocks he jogged to get here from his bus stop.

Enjolras makes an annoyed sound in his throat, kneading a fist into the stitch at his side. “The landlord triple-booked me.”

“Oh, was this one nice? Did you sign for it?” Courfeyrac inquires from Enjolras’ left, where he’s languidly scrolling through his phone, feet propped up on the table to balance his precariously tipped chair.

“No, they said they’d e-mail me the application, so we’ll see,” Enjolras says, shrugging when Courfeyrac’s face falls. “It is what it is,” he tacks on mildly, nudging Courfeyrac affectionately — probably not a good idea, since it causes Courfeyrac’s chair to tip alarmingly farther back — before turning to skim over the agenda in front of him.

Enjolras reckons that he’s wasted enough of their meeting time by showing up ten minutes late. Not that anyone seems to mind, judging by the way they’re all mingling between the mismatched café tables, voices spilling over each other in raucous conversation. The casual chatter in their claimed corner of the room is loud and Enjolras feels a sudden burst of fondness for his friends, who never seem to mind when he’s late, eager to use the lull before meetings as an excuse for more social time. 

They’ve been frequenting the Musain, a little café tucked away in an alley downtown, for the better part of three years. Enjolras had founded Les Amis de l’ABC during his first year at university, after he grew frustrated with the lukewarm, centrist approach of the school’s social justice club. He was quickly joined by Combeferre and Courfeyrac, two of his oldest friends who were likewise disheartened and eager to pursue real change. To help fill out the numbers necessary for an officially sanctioned club, Courfeyrac had dragged along his roommate, Marius, who seemed overwhelmed and out of his depth. He was certainly new to a lot of the more progressive ideas they were discussing at the formation of the group. After a particularly curt verbal lashing from Combeferre, Enjolras had been surprised to see him at the second meeting, with Eponine and Cosette in tow. 

Combeferre, for his part, brought along Grantaire, his roommate at the time. Despite the fact that Combeferre had become fast friends with the man, Enjolras hadn’t interacted with him very much at that point. Whenever Enjolras met Combeferre at his dorm room to walk to class together, Grantaire was all but dead to the world, apparently incapable of waking up before noon. And of course, back then, Enjolras never went with them to residence parties or pub crawls, too nervous to wield a fake ID and far too caught up in the puritanical beliefs he had held about leisure time. Thankfully, he’d grown out of that rigid disposition within the year. Not that the change in attitude had been much of a catalyst for any kind of friendship. Although Grantaire is very personable when he wants to be, he’s not exactly the most coherent when he’s drunk and rambling philosophically into Enjolras’ hair between sips of beer and over the roar of club music. At meetings, his prattle was marginally more comprehensible, or at least served its purpose of systematically unravelling whatever set of ideas Enjolras spent the last hour so carefully constructing. It was, and still is, immeasurably frustrating and not something that Enjolras would particularly like to expose himself to willingly outside of the group. Despite their tentative acquaintanceship, Grantaire’s friendly nature meant that he easily wrangled up enough new faces to meet the university’s membership quota by their second year. The rest of their regular members had been dragged along to meetings by Grantaire at some point, and fell easily into their ranks. 

Now, having meshed into a tight circle of friends (and having been banned from holding meets on campus in third year, after a few too many demonstrations gone awry), they’ve all found a second home here at the Musain. They occupy the back room, which is separated from the rest of the venue by a wall of windows that stretches about three-quarters of the space and does absolutely nothing to cordon off their little microcosm of chaos. But they tip well and Musichetta is friends with the owner, so every Thursday evening, their room is reserved for them and they all get to enjoy an hour of serious conversation, followed by several more of laughing and drinking.

Refocusing his attention back on the agenda, Enjolras feels the pleasantly warm smile that had crept its way onto his face drop as his tracing finger reaches the section detailing the plan for their current cause. The little subheading which is supposed to say “review of promotional materials” is crossed out, the pen ink blotchy and uneven on the photocopied page. Unsurprising, but still… 

Apparently, Combeferre notices his frown and correctly attributes it to the line Enjolras has stopped on, because he clears his throat delicately and says, “Ah, yes that’s been tabled for next week. Grantaire had some... difficulties putting everything together in time for this meeting.”

“The faculty vote is in two weeks, Combeferre. Do you really think that’ll give us enough time to inform people properly?” Enjolras asks. He tries for disappointment but the look on Combeferre’s face tells him that he’s probably landed somewhere nearer to disdain.

“He’s had a long week, I’ll talk to him about sending the mockups to the group email before then. We can just as easily go over any changes virtually,” Combeferre offers placatingly.

This is technically true, but Enjolras still feels his mouth twist a little. 

“They’re still late,” he insists. “He said he wouldn’t push back the deadline this time.”

“He’s doing his best, Enjolras,” Combeferre softly chides and irritation sparks in Enjolras’ chest.

“You don’t need to keep making excuses for him,” he says. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“Enjolras.” Combeferre’s voice has more weight to it this time. Enjolras sees Courfeyrac shift uncomfortably in his periphery, but he doesn’t interject or redirect the conversation like he normally would when they get like this. “He’s your friend too. I’m not making excuses and I’m done engaging in this conversation with you — it won’t lead anywhere productive. Just give him a few extra days. Be patient.”

Enjolras huffs, his prepared response dying on his tongue, and he feels more than a little like a petulant child. He doesn’t want to drop this conversation, just give Grantaire a pass like that when he’s done nothing to deserve it, but there’s something severe in Combeferre’s face that gives him the distinct impression he’s missing something important. He hates that feeling almost as much as he hates the fact that it seems to happen a lot when they’re talking about Grantaire. It isn’t his fault the man’s a shuttered book. Enjolras silently scans through what he’s said to find some context for Combeferre’s response, but comes up empty. He glances toward the back of the room, where Grantaire is sitting at his usual table with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. He’s in the middle of balancing utensils on a glass of water, precariously slotting forks into each other’s tines to make a small, horizontal ladder, much to Joly’s delight. Enjolras squints his eyes, like that will illuminate something. It doesn’t and he just watches blurrily as the makeshift sculpture falls and Bossuet throws his hands up in exaggerated disappointment. At least Combeferre seems satisfied with his silence, because he settles back into his seat to survey the room, his arms crossed casually against his chest in a gesture that communicates a sense of finality. 

“Alright!” Courfeyrac exclaims, letting the front legs of his chair thud back down against the wooden floor, causing Enjolras to jump a little. The majority of conversation in the room sputters out as he succeeds in calling everyone to attention — Courfeyrac has always been effortlessly magnetic like that. “Let’s get this party started.”

* * *

The meeting ends up being productive and Enjolras is able to wrap up many of the loose ends relating to their current trajectory. They even have time in the last half-hour to begin debating where to shift their focus after the vote about proctoring software for online exams concludes in a few weeks. 

Grantaire is unusually quiet throughout most of the meeting, focusing his attention on ripping his copy of the agenda into long strips and folding them into paper stars. They’ve formed a neat little pile on the table in front of him. He’s usually quick to jump in when major decisions are being discussed and Enjolras doesn’t think that he’s physically capable of holding himself back when there’s an argument to be needled out of Enjolras’ thoughts. Today, other than a few neutral comments here and there about addressing the problem from a financial perspective (Enjolras begrudgingly notes this — he’s right, higher-ups at the university tend to care only as far as the bottom line takes them), Grantaire’s participation is blessedly uninflammatory until the very end of the meeting. 

It’s at this time that he raises a hand, lazy and mostly just a flippant bend of the elbow. “Why don’t we tackle university housing, since it’s such a topical issue right now?” he suggests casually, as Combeferre is noting down options for their next cause.

This earns a smack across his bicep from Musichetta and Enjolras feels his face heat, the ability to form words escaping him for a few seconds as he mentally counts to five and re-organizes his thoughts. Combeferre reaches over and adds “student housing” to the growing list of possibilities, his shifting weight in the chair cleverly disguising the jostle of his foot connecting softly with Enjolras’ shin.

Enjolras starts, clears his throat, and then fixes Grantaire with a glare. “That’s not funny, it’s a real issue for some students. Landlords in university cities price gouge, aiming for parents who can afford to pay their kid’s rent for them or international students from wealthy families, leaving the rest with subpar living conditions or extra loans. Not to mention the predatory rental companies that rely on students having a tenuous grasp on tenant’s rights. You—”

Grantaire cuts him off with a loud laugh and says, “Relax, Ange. I know students suffer at the hands of evil businessmen with passive income or whatever.” Enjolras feels his face grow even warmer and exhales sharply through his nose. 

“That’s not—”

“I’m just saying, this is something you have a personal stake in now — you’re already wearing the shoes, so to speak,” Grantaire continues, his tone wry but his blue eyes are leveled on Enjolras, challenging. “It might be nice to focus on yourself for a change, instead white-knighting for the oppressed masses. Poor, downtrodden students aren’t exactly hard to come by, they’re basically a penny a pound these days, but even you can’t look a shining opportunity to speak from experience in the face and, uh, say… no.”

Grantaire sounds like he’s ramping up to a speech before he trails off, but Musichetta has fixed him with a truly terrifying glare which Enjolras loosely translates as _shut the fuck up, R._

He can’t say that he doesn’t appreciate it.

Combeferre nods along with this and places a hand over Enjolras’ where it’s curled, tense and supporting his weight where he leans over the table towards Grantaire. He looks up at Enjolras, catching his eye. “R’s not wrong, but I think we’d all understand if this feels a bit too self-serving for you right now. Maybe we can revisit it in February, when more students are actually looking for housing?”

Something about Combeferre always has a funny way of grounding him and Enjolras finds that he relaxes into his touch too easily, even as he wants to let his anger fester. 

“Fine,” he snaps. “Any other ideas?” 

He aims this towards the back of the room, almost as a challenge in its own right, but Grantaire’s half turned away now, facing Musichetta who looks less than impressed and is speaking lowly at him. His eyes are turned down towards the table and his posture is hunched inwards. Enjolras isn’t sure what to make of that, but the conversation picks up again as Bahorel suggests investigating how recreation centre fees are being utilized and Enjolras’ attention shifts fluidly. The rest of his frustration easily seeps out of his mind as if Grantaire’s interlude never happened. 

When Combeferre’s page is almost full, Courfeyrac finally calls the meeting to a close by ordering a round for everyone, and the evening shifts into a looser, more jovial atmosphere. 

Feuilly gestures for their waitress to pass his beer off to Eponine and takes his leave a few minutes later, approaching the front of the room to clap Enjolras on the back and say, “Have a good night, man. I have a late shift tonight, but message me tomorrow if you need any tips for apartment searching. God knows I’ve moved too many times to count, I’m basically a pro at this point.” 

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” Enjolras says, returning Feuilly’s gesture with an affectionate squeeze of his shoulder. “Make sure to get some sleep though, you look tired.”

“Always am,” Feuilly laughs, his eyes crinkling cheerfully despite the dark circles that seem permanently stained under them. “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t text back until I’ve had at least eight hours.”

With that, he makes a quick round of the room to say his goodbyes and then ducks quietly out the door.

Enjolras doesn’t know how all of his friends collectively found out that he’s been evicted, but he hazards a guess that over the past few weeks it mustn't have been too difficult to connect the dots. He knows that he’s been more on-edge than usual, and there have been plenty of context clues from the quiet conversations he’s had with Combeferre and Courfeyrac before meetings. Either that, or — most likely — Courfeyrac had said something to Marius, and then Marius had said something to everyone. Enjolras is touched that Feuilly thought to give him his well-wishes and feels a tendril of gratitude curl in his chest that he’s lucky enough to call the man his friend. Despite going to school full-time as a mature student and working several jobs to boot, Feuilly always seems to keep a beat on his friends and is never too busy to offer a hand. If Enjolras had his time-management skills, he thinks he’d be a shoe-in for youngest Prime Minister by now.

As it is, Enjolras finds that he really appreciates having scheduled tonight off from schoolwork. He’s been inundated with papers and assignments and proposals and planning for the past few weeks. With the ABC’s workload neatly tied up, he doesn’t even need to have his usual debrief with Combeferre, who seems just as pleased about having some time to himself as Enjolras does. He’s lounging at a table with Jehan and Eponine, straddling a hard wooden chair with his arms loosely draped across the backrest. His brow is furrowed pensively as he listens to Jehan gesticulate wildly about something. He seems content. 

He and Enjolras were supposed to review all of the proposed changes for the posters and online banners but that’ll be an issue for later, when the designs come in this weekend. _If the designs come in this weekend_ , Enjolras corrects himself and lets his eyes slide over to the table nearest the back of the room, where Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, and Grantaire are still congregated. They appear to be having some kind of heated discussion and Grantaire still looks more than a little uncomfortable. His green, knit beanie is pulled down low over his dark curls and he’s hunched low in his seat, as if he wants to slip beneath the table. 

Enjolras shakes his head and is about to turn to ask Courfeyrac how his latest date went when Musichetta raises her voice.

“Exactly!” She exclaims, loudly enough that a few others in the room take notice of her as well. Grantaire inches even further down into his seat and Enjolras thinks that he’s running a real risk of sliding off onto the floor. “Having a backup plan, even if it’s temporary, might take some stress off of apartment-hunting for him,” she continues loudly.

Enjolras balks at that just as he notices Courfeyrac perk up next to him. 

“You know someone who’s looking for a roommate?” Courfeyrac asks, tearing himself away from his phone.

The silence that follows is more than a little stifling as the chatter in the room fades like someone toggled a dimmer switch and Grantaire resolutely stares at the beer in his hands. When he looks up, he seems surprised to find that he has the collective attention of the room.

“I—” he croaks, eyes flickering between his table-mates, over to Courfeyrac, and skittering across Enjolras before returning to his drink. 

“Oh, do you have a classmate or something that needs a roomie?” Courfeyrac asks, and Enjolras feels his neck twinge with how quickly he whips his head back towards him, “Because, I feel like Enjolras’ sleep schedule might jive with, like, a free spirit artist-type. Someone who paints red squares on red canvases and thinks that daylight’s a social construct, you know?”

Enjolras frowns. He peers over to Grantaire who doesn’t appear to have looked up again, and thinks that this all feels a bit like putting together a jigsaw puzzle in slow motion, with half the pieces missing.

“You asked around for me?” Enjolras settles on, surprised that Grantaire gave his living situation more than a cursory once-over for new punchlines.

Grantaire shoots Musichetta a look that Enjolras can’t decipher, and she just responds by arching an eyebrow, which also doesn’t help clear anything up. _More like a puzzle with no edge pieces_ , Enjolras amends, feeling like he’s grasping for any bit of context that might help him understand. This conversation apparently involves him and Grantaire and a hypothetical roommate and that’s about as far as he can figure. 

Enjolras thinks that he might have read this wrong, so he backpedals a bit. “Or… you didn’t?”

Grantaire blinks, as if he suddenly remembers that Enjolras is still there and clears his throat before saying, “Um, no, not really, I uh—” and then lapses back into helpless open-mouthed silence.

Again, not particularly riddled with clues. 

Musichetta rolls her eyes and fixes Enjolras with a sparkling grin that has a predatory edge to it. “Oh, I was just thanking R for that time he let me crash in his spare room. Perks of living out in the east side. It’s far from campus, but the space of a two bedroom is too nice to pass up, right Grantaire?”

Grantaire gapes at her. 

“I didn’t know you had a spare room,” Combeferre interjects, from where he’d apparently paused his conversation with Jehan and Eponine to listen in. “I mean, I guess I did, abstractly, but I assumed you used it as a studio space.”

“Nope!” Musichetta pops the “p” and shakes her head, her curls bouncing lightly off her cheeks. “All he has in there is a shitty daybed from, like, Walmart or something. Not enough natural light to be able to paint properly, apparently. You said it’s the north-facing windows or something, right, R?”

Grantaire nods weakly, looking more than a little dazed and Enjolras gets the feeling that he’s not the only one being helplessly dragged along by this conversation.

“Yeah, the bed’s really uncomfortable,” Jehan adds thoughtfully. “If you already have a mattress, I’d suggest you bring that.” Eponine nods sympathetically and shoots a knowing look across the table to Combeferre from where she’s perched next to Jehan, braiding plaits into their hair. 

Combeferre shrugs, “I wouldn’t know, like I said, _I’ve_ never needed to stay the night.” 

Which, how many of their friends have slept in Grantaire’s elusive spare bedroom? Enjolras doesn’t even think he knows the name of his street. And then, Enjolras’ mind boomerangs violently back to the moment where Jehan had apparently decided that Enjolras is going to move his mattress into Grantaire’s extra room.

“Huh, I guess I never thought to mention it,” Grantaire shrugs, “seeing as the two of us don’t exactly get along.”

“He has a point,” Enjolras says, suddenly feeling a bit desperate and glancing over to Combeferre for support. 

“Well, as a temporary solution, it’s definitely the best one you have at your disposal right now,” Combeferre says reasonably, tilting his head apologetically at Grantaire, and _what the fuck_? Enjolras thought that he, out of anyone, would want to avoid a situation where Enjolras and Grantaire are going to have even more facetime to get into arguments. “And,” he continues, turning his attention back to Enjolras, “if it doesn’t work out, you’ll be looking for a new place anyway, so there won’t need to be any awkward discussions about breaking the lease. It’ll help tide you over until some decent units are posted next semester. At least you know that Grantaire is fine on his own so you won’t be leaving him out to dry when you move. If anything, you’ll be giving him a break on rent for a few months.”

And, well… Huh. Okay, Enjolras can’t find any reasons that don’t either make him look like a massive asshole or that wouldn’t catalyze the potential for an argument that he suddenly does not have the energy for. His saving grace was going to be the tumultuous relationship he and Grantaire barely hold together on a good day. Now, he’s sure that if he tries to use that particular defense, Combeferre would say something about dispute resolution or the opportunity to practice emotional regulation and healthy communication. Of course, it would also be nice to not have to worry about potentially being homeless in a month. It’s not like Enjolras has had any luck finding something in the past few weeks and he doesn’t see that changing in the near future. There’s not much available in the middle of first semester, and the places that he has been able to find are either not looking to rent to students or boast abysmal living conditions. 

Enjolras tentatively nods his assent and shoots a questioning look over to Grantaire who immediately looks away from him, back to studying his pint glass. 

Surprisingly, however, he mumbles, “Yeah, I mean, you’re welcome to stay with me for a bit if you want, or whatever.”

He doesn’t sound very pleased about it. 

“Are you sure?” Enjolras asks, feeling untethered, feeling like the puzzle’s still very much incomplete in front of him, but Combeferre is right about this being the best option he’ll likely be presented with. 

“Uh, yeah, totally,” Grantaire replies, sounding marginally more reassuring. At least he’s finally met Enjolras’ gaze, his usual sardonic grin slowly creeping across his face. “I would’ve offered before, but like I said, I never really thought about it before ‘Chetta brought it up, so…”

That wasn’t exactly what he’d said before but Enjolras is too relieved to linger on that. “Okay then, thanks. I’ll message you tomorrow and we can talk more about it then?”

Grantaire responds with a mock-salute and a wink, before turning back to Musichetta. She laughs but Grantaire’s back is to Enjolras so he can’t see how he reacts. Courfeyrac pats Enjolras on the shoulder and offers him a delighted smile. 

“I guess you heard back about a place today either way, eh?”

“I guess I did,” Enjolras says, feeling somehow like he’s both more relaxed and like he’s holding more tension in his shoulders than before. “So, how did dinner with Leanne go?” he prompts, and Courfeyrac begins on a tirade about poor date etiquette, effectively occupying the rest of Enjolras’ night.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I haven't written anything in like six years so this is a little nerve-wracking to post. No beta for this one, so all errors are my own. Kudos and comments will be cherished.


End file.
